Morgan tackled Barun and fell on top of him. He was yanked away. Someone punched him in the stomach and he doubled over. Another punch and he vomited. Behind him Juliana cried out.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Morgan doubled over in pain. What happened to the men he put around the perimeter? Where was the security he and Isabelle and Reed set up?
Barun nodded to John and he began to drag Juliana away.
“No!” she yanked her arm from his grip but he shoved his pistol into her side and she stilled. Her terror-filled gaze landed on Morgan. I’m sorry, he wanted to say.
John tugged on her arm. She dug her feet into the dewy grass. “Please,” she whispered but Morgan didn’t know if she was talking to him or John.
Furious, Morgan kicked out, landing a blow to the knee of the man to his right. The man cursed and punched Morgan on the side of the head. For a moment his vision dimmed and in those few seconds Juliana disappeared into the darkness.
Gone.
With a cry of anguish mixed with fury and fear, Morgan raced forward, dragging both men with him. Startled, Barun stepped back, but before Morgan reached him, his legs were swept out from under him and he landed on the wet grass, the breath knocked out of him. Another body fell on him, pinning him down.
“Cap’n?”
Morgan stilled. The man on top of him tensed. Morgan’s head was jerked back by his hair and a dagger suddenly appeared at his throat.
“Say one word and you die,” Barun whispered.
Morgan swallowed. If he didn’t say anything Patrick would walk into the clearing and see them, and Patrick was no match for these men. Morgan wouldn’t allow his best friend to walk into his own death.
“Cap’n?” Patrick’s voice was getting closer.
“Let me speak to him,” he said to Barun. “I’ll tell him to go away.”
His head was jerked back farther. Morgan felt his spine pop and stifled the growl of pain. The cold edge of the dagger bit into his skin and he hissed.
“Tell him to go away,” Barun said. “Tell him you and Juliana are going home. Anything else and my man will slice you open right here.”
Morgan tried to nod and licked his lips. “I found Juliana, Patrick. We’re going home. Tell Isabelle we’ll be sailing on the Thomas tomorrow. We’re heading to her home in Barbados. Tell her not to worry.”
There was a long silence. With every labored breath the dagger cut deeper into his skin. The man on top of him was breathing heavily. Barun was silent.
“All right, Cap’n. Have a safe trip,” Patrick finally said.
They waited for several long, agonizing minutes before the brute hauled Morgan up and punched him in the stomach. He doubled over in pain, the breath knocked out of him but grateful that at least Patrick was safe for now and carrying his message to Isabelle.
He was dragged to a carriage waiting in the alley and shoved inside. His captors climbed in behind him, but not Barun. Had he gone with Juliana? Was she locked in a carriage, alone with him?
Morgan lunged for the carriage door but was pulled back. The carriage lurched forward and the men began beating him.
With his hands tied, he had no way to defend himself. He tried kicking but one of the goons sat on his legs. He was punched in the stomach, the side of his head, his ribs, anywhere they could reach in the confined space.
What seemed like hours later, but was probably only a scant twenty minutes, the carriage finally stopped. Morgan was dragged from it, blood dripping from his face, his stomach muscles cramping from the blows. His knees buckled and he hung between the two men, head down, watching his blood drip onto the ground. Where was Juliana? Where had Barun taken her?
He lifted his head but even that slight action caused him so much pain that the world tilted. They were at the docks. If his nose wasn’t clogged with blood, he would have smelled the stench. The men lifted him over the side of a tender and dropped him in. He heard himself groan, felt the blood pour from a cut above his brow. He rolled over and retched but there was nothing left in his stomach.
“I can’t believe you did this to us.” Juliana worked her fingers over the intricate knots that tied her hands behind her.
John turned his face away and stared out the carriage window.
“Morgan has been nothing but kind to you.”
The lights of the city retreated. They were nearing the waterfront because the smell of rotting fish became stronger. She leaned forward until she was nose to nose with John. He smelled of saltwater and fear. He shrank from her, turned his face but she followed, refusing to let him look away.
“Tell me why.”
“Shut up,” he snarled. His teeth glinted white in the darkness, but she didn’t flinch. Her fear of John was nothing compared to the fear of what Barun was going to do to Morgan.
“Not until you tell me why. What has Morgan done to deserve this? He trusted you.”
He pulled his hand back as if to hit her and she stared him down, daring him. She didn’t care what he did to her. Not if it meant she could possibly get information out of him or convince him to help her. He lowered his hand, staring at it as if he’d never seen it before. “Just shut up,” he finally said but the words held no heat.
“I don’t understand. Maybe if I understood—”
“You can’t understand. You’d never understand.” He looked around as if he were afraid someone else were in the coach listening.
“You were the one who threw the knife that night on the Adam, weren’t you?”
He looked at her with his pale blue eyes and a tortured expression. Whatever he did, why he did it, ate at him.
“Were you aiming for me or Morgan?”
He licked his lips and his shoulders slumped. “Captain Morgan. Barun… He didn’t know about you.”
“And you set the Molly Victoria on fire?”
His already pale face turned gray. “Yes.”
“Men died in that fire.”
“You don’t think I know that? I think about it all the time. Every time I close my eyes…” His words ended on a small sob. Tears glinted in his eyes and he quickly blinked them away.
“So tell me why.”
“He has my brother.” He looked around again, his fear a living thing between them. “He has my brother,” he said softly this time. “And he said he’d let ’im go if I did this.”
“Barun would let your brother go if you sabotaged the ship and brought him Morgan?”
He nodded. “He wanted you too. I didn’t want to do it, but I have to save my brother.”
They were getting closer. The lights from the ships bobbed in the distance. They didn’t have much time left before Barun put them on one of those ships and they sailed away.
“Let me go, John.”
“I can’t.” His voice was strained. He shook his head and there was real fear in his eyes.
“Barun doesn’t need to know. Say I hit you over the head or something.”
“If I don’t bring you to him, Andrew gets killed.”
“I can get to Reed and Isabelle. If we work together, we can stop Barun from doing this. We can save your brother and Morgan. Just let me go.”
He swallowed and she could see he was thinking about it. Her hope was almost painful and she continued to press her point, knowing if she backed off now all would be lost.
“Morgan could die, John. Do you want another death on your conscience? Please,” she whispered. “Please help me.”
He lowered his gaze to her lap. She twisted around and showed him her bound hands. “Untie me, John. I’ll do the rest.”
“I can’t,” he said softly, regretfully. “I can’t.”
She jerked around and leaned forward. “You can. Do this, John. Just do it. Please. I’m begging you. Do you want me to get down on my knees?” She slid off the carriage seat and sank to her knees. Her ball gown billowed around her. The gown she took hours picking out for her wedding reception. The gown with grass stains all over it. “Please,” s
he pleaded. “I’m on my knees, John. What else do you want? I’ll do it. Whatever it takes to save Morgan’s life, I’ll do it. Please.” The last word came out as a whisper.
He watched her steadily, silently. “Do you love him that much?”
“More than you will ever know. More than life itself. Don’t let him die. I’m begging you, John. Please don’t let him die.”
The door to the carriage flew open. Juliana jerked back and John scrambled to the other end of the carriage.
“Well.” Barun’s gaze shifted from Juliana, still huddled on the floor, to John. “Well,” he repeated. His eyes were a cold black, his mouth pinched like he’d eaten something sour.
Barun reached in and pulled John out. John’s terrified gaze met hers. Juliana leaned forward. “Don’t,” she said to Barun. “He did nothing.” Why are you defending him? He set you up. Because he was still her last hope. He’d been ready to crack, she saw it in his stooped shoulders and the regret written on his face. She might still have a chance, but not if Barun thought they were misbehaving.
John trembled while Barun held him up by the collar. “What were you doing in there?” he asked.
“N-nothing,” John stammered.
“We were talking,” Juliana said. “That’s all. I was trying to convince him to let me go but he wouldn’t. He refused.”
Barun looked up at her. She was leaning out of the carriage, her hands tied behind her back. His gaze flicked to her bodice and his nostrils flared. She looked down and realized he was looking right down her bodice. She swallowed her disgust, recognizing an advantage.
“Please don’t hurt him,” she said softly, leaning forward a little more. “He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let me go.”
She glanced at John who was looking at her in confusion and hope. Barun let go of John and he stumbled before righting himself.
“Bring her to the boat,” Barun said and turned to walk away.
“Wait,” John cried.
Barun stopped and slowly turned around. “You have them both,” John said. “I did what you told me to do. What about my brother?”
Barun laughed and clapped John on the back. John’s hands clenched into fists and red crept up his neck to his cheeks.
“When we reach India, my son, you will see your brother.”
Morgan was roughly pushed into a chair, his wrists untied, then retied to the arms, his ankles fastened to the legs. He stared straight ahead, refusing to give his captors the satisfaction of seeing his pain.
Barun entered, still dressed in his formal attire although it was wrinkled now and smudged with dirt and grime. He picked up some papers from his desk and studied them for long minutes. Men walked past the cabin’s closed door, the sound of their voices floating in, then receding as they moved on. Gulls circled above, calling to one another as they waited for scraps of food to be tossed overboard.
The ship gently swayed in the warm breeze. Morgan forced himself to take shallow breaths to keep the pain at bay. Barun was playing a game with him and he had no choice but to play along. He had to remain lucid to do it though and if he breathed too deep he was afraid he would pass out again. His ribs were bruised, possibly broken. One eye was so swollen he could barely see and he had so many cuts that blood leaked out of him in various places.
Finally Barun straightened and looked at Morgan, his black eyes strangely vacant.
“I want the lance,” he said.
“Release my wife and I will give it to you.” A cut on his lip cracked opened and began to bleed. Maybe, he could save her after all. However slim the hope, he latched onto it.
The vacant eyes took on a violent shine. “She is your wife now, eh?”
Ah, Barun hadn’t heard that bit of information. “Release her and I will give you the lance.”
Barun nodded to the man behind Morgan. He was punched in the jaw. The crack echoed in his brain. His head jerked to the side. Blood ran from a cut on his cheek. He shook his aching head and fought off the blackness threatening to pull him under.
“I want the lance,” Barun repeated.
Morgan drew in an unsteady breath, his stomach muscles screaming in agony. “Release Juliana and I will give it to you.”
Another nod from Barun and this time the man on Morgan’s left punched him. Morgan was prepared for it but his head still snapped around. Blood flowed freely down his face and the coppery taste of it invaded his mouth. Gingerly, his tongue probed the inside of his cheeks.
“The lance.”
“For Juliana’s freedom.” His words were becoming garbled. His face was beginning to swell.
The blow this time landed squarely in his stomach. He doubled over and vomited on Barun’s floor. He was punched in the kidney before he had a chance to straighten.
This “bartering” went on. Morgan lost track of time as he fought to stay coherent. He had to concentrate just to speak a few words. No place on his body went untouched. Blood ran into his eyes. His kidneys cried out in pain. He’d even been kicked in the shins.
It took great effort to breathe through the pain. Each breath brought a fresh wave of nausea and darkness that he fiercely battled away. As long as Barun was in the room he was away from Juliana. That’s all Morgan concentrated on, keeping Barun from Juliana.
Barun walked to a cabinet. Morgan watched him warily. His body tense, waiting for what was to come. Even that small action sent a wave of pain through him that made him want to groan. He bit the inside of his shredded cheek to keep from making a sound. He’d yet to cry out. There was some satisfaction in that at least.
Barun pulled out a bottle from the cabinet and poured a generous portion of something in a glass. Morgan tried not to lick his lips, tried not to let it show how thirsty he was. When was the last time he had something to drink? His tongue felt like it was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he swallowed blood.
The ball seemed like a lifetime ago but if he was judging the time correctly by the position of the sun, it was barely past dawn. Only a few hours had passed. He fought the urge to close his eyes and give in. If he gave in, Barun would leave and possibly go to Juliana. He had to stay awake.
Barun smiled at him and downed the entire glass. He refilled it slowly, the amber liquid making a slight glup-glup that had never sounded so sweet to Morgan’s ears.
“My plans are to build upon my father’s empire and make it bigger and better. With the lance I will achieve that.” Barun leaned his shoulder against the wall and slowly sipped his drink. “Rumor has it the lance has special powers. Supposedly, he who holds it will rule all he chooses. I will be assured victory if I have the lance.”
“I’ll give you…the lance. Release…Juliana.”
Barun set his glass on the very edge of his desk, right in front of Morgan’s nose. Brandy. He was drinking brandy. Unwillingly, his gaze dropped to the cool liquid inside the clear glass. His throat convulsed in expectation. He pulled his gaze away. The room smelled of vomit and brandy and as much as he craved the liquid, Morgan’s stomach rolled ominously.
“You don’t seem to understand,” Barun said. “I want it all. I want you as my slave, I want your wife as my woman and I want the lance to ensure my victories. There will be no compromise.” He leaned forward. “There will be no bargaining.”
Morgan reared back, the sweet scent of brandy and the sickly smell of vomit still in his nose. “Then…no lance.”
Barun nodded to one of the men. Morgan tensed for another blow but the man walked out of the cabin. Morgan watched him go, a feeling of dread weakening his already depleted reserves of strength.
Barun walked around the desk and rested his hip on it. His thigh brushed the glass and it teetered before tipping over. Amber colored liquid pooled then dripped down the front of the desk. Morgan’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His lips, parched and cracked, bled. Brandy would sting the cuts in his mouth, but, oh, how sweet it would be.
He counted the drips. One. Two. Three.
Barun crosse
d his arms over his chest and leaned forward. “I will take better care of her than you ever will, daasa. I can give her jewels and silk. I can wrap her in luxury. Power and glory will be hers.”
Four. Five. Six.
“She means that much to you?”
Seven. Eight.
Barun grabbed a handful of Morgan’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing his throat.
“You are nothing,” he spat. Spittle flew from his mouth and mixed with the blood dripping down Morgan’s face. Frustration burned deep in his eyes and Morgan couldn’t help the smile that curled his lips. Barun released him so viciously that Morgan’s head flew back, connecting with the back of the chair with a crack.
Barun walked leisurely around the large cabin.
Morgan trained his eyes on the brandy.
“Hair as bright as the sun, eyes as green as the rolling hills of Ireland.”
Nine. Ten. The drips slowed.
“And her skin.” Barun sighed in appreciation. “Her skin is as soft as the silk my country produces. Softer and warmer and infinitely more desirable.”
Morgan strained against the bindings, his hands curling into fists.
Eleven.
A slight pause as a drop clung to the edge of the desk, hovering above the abyss, holding on against the gravity pulling it down.
It finally succumbed.
Twelve.
“Her lips so pink, her complexion so pale. There are others in your country with the same pale skin, the same golden hair, but none compare to Juliana.” Barun swung around, his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you agree?”
Thirteen.
“But of course you do. You wedded her after all.” He sighed. “Ah well. I had hoped to be her first. But,” he shrugged. “I will be happy with at least having her. And with the lance. The things I will do. The countries I will conquer.”
Fourteen.
He continued to stroll, apparently forgetting his audience of one. “My father had dreams. He dreamt of ruling the Indian Ocean and he accomplished his dream. No one was more feared than Conajee and his fleet of ships. But me,” he beat his chest with a fist and smiled. “I will do better. I will go beyond the Indian Ocean. Yes, the world will hear of Sanjit Barun. They will hear and they will tremble. And Juliana…” He paused. Morgan shuddered. The man was obsessed with his wife and he didn’t know what he was going to do to save her.
Wherever You Are Page 20
